Create: A Cariad Romance Three Book Bundle (Cariad Collections)

by Primula Bond

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she’d said mildly, ignoring both the tears that were rolling down her cheeks and the tissues that Anton was shoving at her periodically. ‘There might be a perfectly valid explanation.’

  ‘If there is, I will apologise to him personally,’ Anton said. ‘But there isn’t.’

  And it seemed he was right because if there was an explanation, Natalie was sure Will would have contacted her himself when he’d finally deigned to switch his mobile back on.

  She left messages on both his mobile and his landline, none of which were ever answered.

  Then, when she had been back a week, he texted her. Short and to the point, the text said, Sorry, Natalie. I tried to warn you. I don’t have time for a relationship at the moment. Not in London. Be happy.

  She didn’t dare show it to Anton. Not because he would say, “I told you so”, more because she was afraid he would go back to Bournemouth himself and personally flatten Will. The image of the tall, willowy Anton flattening her gorgeous, fit Will stole her breath and momentarily the pain was so bad she doubled over with grief. Could it be possible for your heart to actually break? She had wondered about this before when she had read about people dying from broken hearts. She had wondered if you would hear a snapping sound or did a heart break quietly?

  The pain was at its worst at night. She dreamt about him constantly – darkly erotic, deeply disturbing dreams, they were often laced with cruelty, but it was her cruelty, not his. In one of them she stripped him naked and laid him backwards over his grand piano. His hands were handcuffed above his head at the keyboard end of the piano, and his legs were strapped wide apart at the narrower tapered end, so that his erect cock and balls were on display to her, but she couldn’t see his face. She stood, dominatrix-like, at the tapered end, dressed in a black cloak, a cat o’ nine tails in her hand.

  Flick, flick, flick, she trailed the whip over his abdomen and with each flick his cock twitched with ecstatic fear. Flick, flick, flick, she whipped him with delicate precision, increasing the pain levels, inch by luxurious inch, until he was begging her to stop. She was egged on by the grand piano; its deep bass notes, hit by invisible fingers, boomed in time to his cries, applauding his struggles with dark glee.

  But she couldn’t stop, no matter how much he begged, no matter how much he squirmed against the grainy rosewood veneer. She couldn’t stop because she had a mission.

  This was no idle torture, this was art. With each flick of her whip, she sketched another stroke of her design. With each flick of her whip she added another pixel of colour. And even when he was bleeding, helpless before her, screaming at her to stop above the thumping resonance of the music, his cock still stayed hard, mocking her, adoring her, no matter how much agony she caused him. When she was finished, the word LOVE was etched in pain on his skin.

  Each time she had this dream, she would wake up sobbing.

  There was something seriously wrong with her, Natalie decided, to be capable of harbouring such darkness. She dealt with it by holing herself up in her studio and painting stormy seas flinging tiny boats to their destruction, blood red angry skies that looked on with indifference, and landscapes that shimmered with despair.

  After a while a massive anger kicked in. The black pain of anger was just as powerful when it came to creativity and now she painted forest fires, trees bent beneath flames and evergreens turning to dust; tornadoes that wreaked havoc on idyllic landscapes, toppling icing sugar houses into rivers of darkness.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Anton said when he dropped by her studio one Saturday evening on his way back from the gallery to see how she was getting on. ‘Why don’t you do some of Hades while you’re at it? Maybe a few sacrificial virgins? Naked would be good.’

  ‘Good idea,’ she said, and flicked him a glance over her shoulder. ‘Was this a social call, or did you actually want something?’

  ‘This was dropped off at the gallery this afternoon.’ He handed her a small white envelope. ‘It has your name on it. I thought it might be important.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She took it and without thinking of anything much she slit it open with a brass horse-head letter opener her mother had given her for her last birthday.

  Anton, obviously assuming that as she hadn’t thrown him out it was OK to stay for coffee, had moved across to the sink and was filling the jug and busying himself putting a new filter into her coffee machine.

  Natalie opened the envelope and pulled out a flimsy photograph that had obviously been home-printed on poor-quality paper. As she did so, an accompanying note fell to the floor, but for a moment she was too distracted to pick it up. Her heart had begun to beat very fast and her head was dizzying in shock. She was looking at a picture of Waiting for her Lover. And it wasn’t hanging anywhere she knew, but on a black velvet backdrop in a room she didn’t recognise.

  ‘Dear Lord ...’ She wasn’t aware she’d spoken the words out loud until Anton appeared at her side.

  ‘What is it?’

  She handed him the photo in shocked silence and she saw his face crease in consternation. With slow-motion movements she bent to pick up the note that was lying face down on the floor.

  ‘If you want to see the picture again,’ it said in ridiculous block capitals. ‘We want 25k in used notes. Further instructions to follow. No police.’

  ‘How extraordinary,’ Anton said, reading it over her shoulder. ‘What do you want to do?’

  ‘I don’t suppose you saw who delivered it?’ She couldn’t believe her voice was so calm.

  ‘No, I did not. It was there waiting when I went in at lunchtime.’ He frowned. ‘Jenny said she had found it by the till. I suppose we could ask around but it could be any number of people. Camden Market’s been really busy today. Lots of people have come in on their way past. Do you want me to phone the police?’

  ‘I don’t know. Not yet.’

  ‘You’re not considering paying.’

  ‘I suppose I could.’ She smiled bitterly. ‘Odd that they didn’t ask for more.’

  ‘They clearly have no idea of its value. Well, the insurers would certainly pay out – it’s worth at least double that. What about the further instructions?’

  Natalie bit her lip as she looked up into his anxious eyes and she felt a wave of anger. How dare someone try to blackmail her? How dare they steal her painting and then send her this crude little demand? Did they really expect her to sit meekly waiting till they got in touch again? Did they seriously think she was going to give them the satisfaction – let alone pay them any bloody money!

  ‘Bugger the further instructions,’ she said with quiet venom. ‘I’m not going to be manipulated and controlled by some dirty little blackmailer, Anton. No way. In fact, I’m not going to answer my phone. Either of my phones. Then we’ll see about further fucking instructions.’

  Anton looked at her in amazement. She hardly ever swore. ‘So what are you going to do?’ he said at last.

  ‘I don’t know. I’m going to have a think ... I’m still in shock.’ She frowned, and he patted her shoulder.

  ‘Darling girl, please don’t hate me for suggesting it, but maybe you should consider going to see Will.’

  She lowered her eyes, hating the fact that the same disloyal thought had crossed her mind.

  ‘I know you don’t want to hear it,’ he went on gently, ‘but if there is an outside chance he is involved in this, then perhaps you should at least rule him out?’

  ‘I would have staked my life on it that he wasn’t involved, Anton. I really would. But then I would also have staked my life on the fact that he felt something for me too. And he clearly doesn’t.’ She sighed. ‘Maybe you’re right. Maybe I should go and see him. It can’t do any harm. And I’m certainly not waiting around here for further instructions.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ he said instantly.

  ‘There’s no need.’

  ‘I think there is. Call it an urge to protect my investment.’ He shot her a don’t-ar
gue glance. ‘You don’t know what you’re dealing with. And talking of protecting my investment …’ He glanced over at the half-finished painting of a tornado whirling through a yellow and black sky. ‘Aren’t you going to finish this first? It’s one of the best things you’ve ever done.’

  ‘No I am not. Don’t you ever think of anything but money?’

  ‘Not often, no,’ he said with a grin.

  ‘Do you need to pack a bag? I’m going to, in case we need to stay in Bournemouth. We might be quite late.’

  ‘Good idea. I’ll pick you up in half an hour. What will you do if they ring?’

  ‘I shall ignore the bastards.’

  Natalie was glad of his company as he drove her to Bournemouth, not least because they went in his Jag so she didn’t have to drive. She couldn’t believe how angry she was. Was she angry with the blackmailer or was she angry with Will? Were they one and the same person? It hurt badly to think they might be. It couldn’t be Will’s work, this crude little note. But then how well had she actually known the man she’d thought herself in love with? Besides, he’d hardly have written it himself, would he? He wouldn’t have stolen the painting himself either. In fact, he couldn’t have done because she’d been with him on the night it had vanished.

  Short of drugging her and sneaking out he couldn’t have done it, but he could certainly have taken her keys and copied them and put them back without her being aware of it. And he could certainly have given them to whoever had stolen it. And, when she thought back, it was the painting he had first been interested in, hadn’t it? On the first day he’d come into the exhibition he had spent an age studying it. She remembered how uncomfortable she had felt when he’d been looking up at it, his gaze lingering on her nakedness. Perhaps she should have trusted her instincts. But she’d been side-tracked by the strong attraction between them. She had thought that explained why she’d felt so uneasy, but what if Will had never been interested in her? What if it had only ever been about the painting?

  Another memory was surfacing, flickering disturbingly at the back of her mind. On her last morning in Bournemouth when she’d woken up in his bed he hadn’t been beside her. Light had been filtering through the crack in the curtains but it was still early. The clock on her mobile said 5.45 and at first she thought he’d just gone to the loo, but there were no sounds from the en suite bathroom. She’d lain there for another five minutes before getting up and padding across the bare floorboards of his bedroom to the hall.

  There were sounds coming from the main bathroom: the sounds of him coughing – no, the sounds of him retching. Worried, she stood in the doorway of his room, wondering whether to go and knock on the door or go back to bed and wait. Did he need her help? He obviously wasn’t OK. The retching halted and suddenly she knew he wouldn’t want an observer. Someone who was as strong as Will would hate her to know he was being ill. He would see it as a weakness.

  So she crept back to bed and snuggled up under the duvet and when he came back and got in beside her a few minutes later she pretended she was asleep and had just woken.

  ‘Hey, you. What time is it?’ She rolled over to face him and he stroked her hair.

  ‘Too early to get up.’ His breath was mouthwash fresh in her face.

  ‘Are you OK?’ She looked at him, alarmed at the whiteness of his skin. ‘Will, you look awfully pale.’

  ‘I think I ate something that disagreed with me.’ He smiled at her. ‘Nothing to worry about.’

  She lay back beside him, deeply worried, but knowing he wasn’t going to tell her any more. And it could be true. Except that Will had told her once that stress affected his stomach. Was he stressed about her leaving? Or was he stressed because he knew they wouldn’t see each other again? Was that what he was planning? A clean break? Was that why he’d been sick?

  Or had there been another reason, she thought now, as she and Anton zoomed down the A31 far too fast. Had Will been stressed to the point of throwing up because he’d been worrying about that painting? Maybe he’d been having regrets about the part he’d played in taking it.

  Chapter Eight

  ‘I’ve arranged for us to borrow Mick’s flat again,’ Anton told her conversationally, as they came into Bournemouth. ‘You’re right, it’ll be too late to drive back tonight. Mick didn’t mind – the flat’s still empty. It will save us an expensive night in a hotel.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have minded an expensive night in a hotel.’

  ‘That’s because you are rich and I am poor.’

  ‘Yes, I can tell you’re poor.’ She tapped the cream leather above the walnut dashboard. ‘That’s why you drive such an old banger.’

  ‘This old banger is precisely why I am poor,’ he shot back. ‘Do you know how many miles it does to the gallon?’

  ‘We could have come in mine.’

  ‘We could not. You are in no fit state to drive a hundred miles and I happen to value my life, even if you do not.’ He paused.

  Acting on a hunch which Natalie was suddenly sure was right, she said, ‘You didn’t have an ulterior motive then, for coming to Bournemouth? Aside from the gallant offer to protect me, of course?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Anton’s cheeks had gone pink – a sure sign he was hiding something.

  ‘A Mick-shaped motive,’ she said. ‘You never did tell me where you were on the night my painting was stolen.’

  For a moment she thought she had gone too far. Anton was fiercely protective of his private life. He didn’t answer, and a pulse beat madly in his jaw.

  ‘Not that it’s any of my business,’ she added. ‘Forget I asked.’

  ‘No, it’s OK. Hell, I interfere in your private life often enough.’ He slipped her a sideways glance. ‘I have been seeing Mick, yes. It’s early days but it’s ... well, it’s ...’

  ‘It’s bloody fantastic,’ she said. ‘I’m so pleased. You old goat. Didn’t I say you weren’t over the hill?’

  ‘It would seem not.’ His voice was acerbically dry, but he looked pleased. He cleared his throat. ‘Getting back to the present, have you decided what you’re going to say to Mr Falcon?’

  ‘Not really,’ Natalie admitted. Anger had carried her through the first part of the journey, but now they were getting closer the thought of seeing Will again was having an extreme effect on her body. Her heart was beating too fast and her hands were damp with perspiration. And fear wasn’t the only emotion at play. To her dismay she also felt hugely aroused at the prospect of seeing Will.

  Despite everything he’d done, despite the pain he’d caused her, her body was delighting in the possibility of seeing him again. Her nipples had become hard little nubs and were pressing painfully against her bra and there was an ache lower in her body, an ache between her legs that she knew would only be sated by Will’s fingers, Will’s lips, Will’s cock. How dare he still have this effect on her?

  ‘Are you just going to ask him outright?’ Anton said.

  Ask him to take her to bed – yes, that was a good idea. They could vent their anger and frustration on each other’s bodies; she would make him scream for release – like he’d once done with her. Will was good at making her wait; he was a master of the long, drawn-out orgasm, delighting in taking her two steps towards climax and then one step back, till she begged him to tip her over the edge.

  ‘Or are you relying on the element of surprise?’ Anton said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The element of surprise. Not that he’s likely to have your painting hanging in his lounge.’

  ‘I’m going to ask him outright,’ she said, blinking away the image of Will’s naked body, because that wasn’t helping at all. He didn’t want her. He’d told her that in no uncertain terms. Deal with it, Natalie, although that didn’t mean she couldn’t bloody well ask him what he’d been playing at.

  ‘I’ll make him tell me the truth,’ she said, feeling a little flex of pain. ‘And not just about my painting.’

  Anton’s lips twisted cynically.
‘Would you like me to hold him down while you apply thumbscrews?’

  ‘You are not going to be there, Anton. I want you to drop me off at his flat.’

  ‘You can’t be serious!’

  ‘I am serious. I’m going to handle this. He’s hardly going to hurt me. He won’t get paid if he does.’ And actually he couldn’t hurt her any more, she thought, with a little swallow. He had already hurt her beyond belief.

  It took the rest of the journey to persuade Anton. ‘I just need an hour,’ she said. ‘Please. You can go and get the key from Mick while I see him. If there is any trouble, I’ll call you. I promise.’

  Finally, reluctantly, he agreed. ‘What will you do if he isn’t in?’ he asked her, as they drew up outside Will’s house.

  ‘His car’s there,’ Natalie said, feeling a crunch of anticipation in her stomach at the sight of it. ‘And someone’s in – I just saw the lounge curtains move. Now go, Anton, please. I promise I’ll call if I need you.’

  She had been slightly worried that he might not let her in. But almost as soon as she rang the doorbell, her finger slip-sliding on its surface, she heard activity on the other side of it. The door swung open, but she didn’t know who was the most surprised: herself or the young woman who had opened it.

  They both spoke at the same time.

  ‘I’d like to speak to Will, please.’

  ‘You’re Natalie, aren’t you?’

  There was a pause. Natalie’s legs felt rubbery as she took in the other woman’s appearance. Dark hair, tawny eyes, slim, pretty, she couldn’t have been more than 28 or 29. Oh God, she hadn’t seen this one coming. No wonder he hadn’t wanted to see her again. He’d had this girl waiting in the wings.

  She felt sick and hot, despite the coolness of the evening. Lord, why had she come here? Why hadn’t she left well alone? She hadn’t thought anything could be worse than Will stealing her painting, but this was worse. Far, far worse. She put out a hand to steady herself on the doorpost, only slowly registering that the other woman was smiling.